Under the Flight Path
by Klee Wyck
Summary: Do you ever wish you were on a plane just going away from here? GSR. Season 7, post The Good, The Bad And The Dominatrix.


**Title:** Under the Flight Path  
**Author:** Klee Wyck  
**Pairing:** GSR  
**Spoilers: **Season 7, post-_The Good, The Bad And The Dominatrix_  
**Rating:** M  
**Disclaimer:** I own very little, and certainly not these characters.  
**Summary:** Sara, a six-pack and a lonely motel room. A lonely I orange /I motel room.

* * *

**A/N:** I just watched this episode for the second time the other night and yeah, this is how I would have handled the whole damn mess.

* * *

It was called The Come On Inn and even Sara had to crack a smile at that one when Nick lowered his sunglasses and rolled his eyes at her.

"Cheeseball," she said.

"Oh yeah," he said.

It was a double murder that was looking like a murder-suicide — of course, wasn't it always? — and it was messy and bloody and complicated enough to distract Sara and keep her thoughts from straying. She liked working with Nick because he kept up a light, friendly banter and didn't expect her to contribute too much in return. He told interesting stories and, from time to time, jokes that were actually pretty funny.

Once in awhile she even laughed a little.

The motel itself was old and sad, located almost within walking distance of the airport and the constant thrust and roar of jet engines, so jarring at first, gradually, as the hours passed, became like background music, like white noise, like an old, comfortable relationship before it went all to hell.

The victims, a man and a woman in their late 30s, were married, but not to each other.

Of course, thought Sara. Of course. What happily married couple frequented a sad, broken-down motel in the middle of a Thursday afternoon?

There was a bottle of wine on the little bedside table, and two glasses, filled but not sipped from. The woman's bag was open, but her shiny red negligee was still tucked inside.

"What do you think, Sara? Lovers' tiff?"

She tilted her head, shrugged, one shoulder.

"No flowers," she said, looking around. "There aren't any flowers."

"So?

"Well, he had wine for them, probably to relax her, but no flowers. He was dropping a bomb." She looked down at the couple and wondered about their spouses. She tried to imagine the looks on their faces when the cops showed up at their doors. Stupid, stupid people. Sometimes she hated people. "He was breaking up with her."

Nick stopped, looked at her. He nodded. "It fits. He should have waited until she'd had a few glasses, at least, before telling her."

She snapped a few photos.. "She must have…sensed it."

"Women's intuition." Nick grinned.

"We like to think we know what's going on," Sara said dryly.

"So, she killed him, then herself. If she couldn't have him…" He sighed. "Love makes you do all sorts of crazy things, you know?"

"That's not love," Sara said.

"What is it?"

"Murder."

Which, she thought, was sometimes the same thing.

* * *

Grissom hadn't come home that night. It was a week ago now and they still hadn't talked about it, not really, and mainly because Sara had decided to pretend it hadn't happened and that Lady Heather, _beautiful, smart, intense, charming, uninhibited Lady Heather_, didn't even exist.

Sometimes it even worked.

So he hadn't come home, but he'd phoned to say he wasn't coming home and why he wasn't coming home, and she'd listened to him calmly rationalize why he wasn't coming home over the phone and it almost sounded logical.

Damn, he was good.

It wasn't until later when she was alone in bed, stretched out to fill up all the empty spaces, watching shadows shift and flicker on the walls and ceiling that she began to process what he'd said and what it all meant.

He wasn't coming home. He was, instead, staying with _her_. Because he was the only one she trusted.

Well, then. All right.

Suddenly it made both perfect sense and no sense at all.

And the next day he did come home and he stepped around her with great care, using careful, gentle words. He made her dinner and was very quiet and watched her with a careful expression.

What was he waiting for, she wondered. Did he think she'd blow up? Melt down? Throw things? Cry? Rant and rave and force an ultimatum?

What she felt was a deep, blue-black, almost paralyzing despair, one that bloomed in the pit of her stomach and stretched insidious fingers up her chest and out her limbs. She felt alone and terribly lonely, but couldn't put words to any of that so instead she said nothing.

Instead she didn't address it at all, and she simply smiled and asked what he wanted for dessert and whether he found it too cold with the air conditioning on, and she could almost see him release a long-held sigh of relief and so they went on and pretended it hadn't happened at all.

Sometimes it even worked.

* * *

"Sara, let's roll."

Nick leaned against the doorframe, tapped his foot impatiently as she gathered her belongings.

"Sara?" He checked his watch. "Come on. I have plans tonight, for once. Half-decent plans."

"Oh, you go ahead. I'm…I'm gonna stay, actually." She felt a blush rising along her neck and she cursed inwardly.

"You're gonna what?"

"Stay. I'm staying here tonight. I already booked a room."

Nick laughed. "Are you serious? You are. You're serious." He looked around. "You're seriously staying here. At The Come On Inn. Tonight."

"Yes, Nick. I just said that."

He laughed again, louder. "Alone?"

She glared at him. "That is none of your business." She thrust her kit at him. He took it, grinning. "But, yes."

"Can I ask why?"

"No."

"All right," he held up his hands and headed away from her, towards the truck. "Don't have too much fun."

"Don't worry," she muttered, watching him peel out of the parking lot and and drive away. She turned and studied the motel's exterior and realized that despite its peeling paint, crumbling plaster, the three cracked window panes, the building had once been beautiful. She could see its loveliness hovering, waiting, just beneath the surface, ready to reappear at any time.

Just needs a little attention, she thought. Some gentleness, some love.

Just like me.

* * *

It was a short walk to the little grocery store on the corner.

Forty-seven steps, actually, because she counted, boots hitting the pavement with a satisfying _thud thud thud._

She bought a bag of chips, large, and some beer, six, because she felt like it. The store clerk barely gave her passing glance as he dropped a handful of coins into her hand.

She tried counting again on the way back, just to see, but was distracted by a 747 that appeared out of nowhere, its sleek, silver belly soaring over her head, blocking out the whole sky. For a moment she couldn't see anything at all.

For a moment everything was so loud and so close it shook her bones and took her breath away.

* * *

Sara fingered her worn, brass key as she walked. Room 4. It sounded like a nice, even number. Safe. Innocuous.

She pushed her way inside — the door was a little warped and stuck as it swung open — and noted the mustiness, the dankness, the dimness.

This room had embraced a lot of lonely people.

This room was also orange.

Everything was orange. All shades and nuances of orange, ranging from pumpkin to rust to carrot to amber.

She wandered around the room, lightly touching the nubby orange bedspread, the pock-marked bedside table, the rough and peeling wallpaper. The carpet, too, was orange. She grinned.

Perfect.

She parted the frayed tangerine curtains and peered out at the city.

_Hi, I'm Sara. New in town. Just another tourist, one of thousands,_ she thought. _Don't know anyone. Want to have a drink? Want to catch a show? I'm leaving in a week. Going home. We'll never see each other again, so let's get crazy, okay? Okay._

She perched on the edge of the bed, bounced once, twice, then fell back. She felt the ancient bedsprings give way beneath her weight, sag and moan, and she could almost hear the identical groans of thousands of identically lonely people who had done the identical thing for the years and years and years before her.

In that way, at least, she wasn't completely alone.

She smiled.

Perfect.

* * *

She kicked off her boots and undressed slowly, peeling fabric away layer by layer, until she was down to her bra and underwear. She stood in front of the slightly warped and tarnished bathroom mirror. Her image was wavy, like she was looking into a puddle, gasoline film clouding its surface.

She wondered what Grissom saw when he looked at her, what he _really_ saw.

She opened a beer and sipped it. She watched herself in the mirror as she turned her head back and forth. Her face, so familiar and still so foreign, even now. An ever-changing map. Her face, an odd assortment of hills and lines, mountains and valley. Eyes, nose, mouth; features that somehow came together to form her, Sara. She lifted her hair, let it fall, a dark curtain around her pale, freckled shoulders.

Pretty, maybe. Exotic? Never. Beautiful? No, she'd never, ever thought of herself that way. She hadn't allowed herself to think about her looks much at all, preferring to focus on her brain, her work, her accomplishments.

Grissom told her she was beautiful, all the time. She tried very hard to believe him.

Sometimes it even worked.

She tilted the can and drank it all in one long swallow. She wiped her mouth with the back of her hand, belched softly and popped another. She closed her eyes and opened them again. A jet passed overhead and the mirror shook, making a faint, metallic rattling sound. She smiled. The whole damn place was falling down around her.

She took off the rest of her clothes and climbed into the shower.

* * *

She slid between the sheets, stretching her toes down, down into the space between the layers. She lay her damp head on the crackly pillow, breathed in, out, in out. She stretched her arms wide, feeling nothing but an expanse of slightly rough, cool cotton on either side. She tried to remember the last time she'd been able to do this, fill up the whole bed with no one complaining, no one nudging her, poking the ticklish spot under her ribs, calling her a blanket hog.

Oh yeah. The night Grissom hadn't come home. Right.

Her phone was on the bedside table. The digital clock read 11:37 in vermillion numerals. Nick had left two hours ago. Grissom would be looking for her by now, probably, waiting, wondering.

She lay on her back, staring up into semi-darkness. She counted jet engines because she couldn't ignore them, couldn't not think about them. The whole building shook with them. Three. Four. They sounded lower and louder now, like she could simply reach up through the water-stained ceiling and touch them as they passed.

Grab hold, hitch a ride. To where?

Somewhere, anywhere. Anywhere but here.

England, Ireland, Greece, Italy, Sweden, Canada, Australia, Thailand. Places she'd never been. Places where no one knew her and she knew no one. She could cut her hair, dye it blonde, or pink. Wear different clothes, a different look on her face.

She could be someone else.

She wondered what Grissom would do if he called and she was in Spain. Or Holland.

Russia.

Another plane.

Five.

Another.

Six.

All those people coming to Las Vegas.

All those people.

She wondered how many of them were happy, how many were with their spouses, how many were with people they wished were their spouses.

She wondered how many of them would die here.

Of course she had to wonder _that_.

She fell asleep.

* * *

Her phone rang at 11:59. Once. Twice.

She answered it.

"Where are you?" He sounded angry and worried and far, far away. She could almost imagine he was in a different city, or that she was.

"I'm…in bed. I _was_ asleep, I think."

There was a pause long and large enough to drive a truck through. Or a 747.

"Sara…" He was speaking slowly, as if trying to sort it all out. She could even picture the look on his face. "I mean, I know _where_ you are. Nick told me. You stayed at the crime scene?"

"Well, not exactly. I'm two doors down, actually, from where a certain Mrs. Anderson killed a certain Mr. Wolfe before then killing herself. They were cheating on their respective spouses, you know, or did Nick already tell you that? And _he_ was going to end it today. Surprise! A woman scorned. It never ends well."

"Sara…what are you doing?"

"I told you. I'm in a bed and I'm trying to sleep."

Another pause.

"Why?"

She rolled and pushed the phone against her ear.

"Everything is orange in here. The bedspread…the lamps…even the rug. I'm having a serious psychedelic childhood flashback."

"Are you…are you coming home tonight?"

"No. I don't think so." She pushed down harder on the phone. "I mean, it's too late, don't you think?"

"What?" Slight panic.

A jet. Another. She'd lost count. Shit. She'd really wanted to keep track.

"Well, it's midnight, Grissom."

"Oh." Slight relief, but only slight.

Another jet.

"I'm under the flight path. I mean right under it."

Another. Low rumble, thrust, roar. She pictured red taillights, wheels touching down, the bump, the jostle, the excitement etched onto new faces greeting a new city.

"Did you hear that?"

"Yes."

"If you could go anywhere, anywhere in the world, where would you go?"

"Sara."

"Seriously. I'm seriously serious. Where would you go?"

"I don't know."

"Come on. You can do better than that. I know you're just dying to go visit some tiny island off the coast of Africa where the last known golden dung beetle is said to be eking out its existence."

"I'm tired, Sara. I really would just like to go to sleep."

"So, go," she said, too weary to fight. "I will, too."

Another jet. A big one. Rumble in her belly, shaking of the bed, light I bang bang bang /I against the wall. She grinned in the darkness.

"Whoa. Did you hear _that_ one? I think it almost landed on the roof."

She put her hand on her chest, felt the _pound pound pound_ of her heart.

"I would like to go to sleep with _you_. I mean, that's what I had planned for tonight."

_Sometimes plans change, buddy._

"Oh." She sighed and shifted. The pillow really was not comfortable and it smelled funny, and the bed was already making her back ache. She wondered suddenly what the hell she was doing. Tears prickled her eyes and she pushed two fingers against her eyelids, hard. "Grissom…"

"Yes?"

"Do you ever wish you were on a plane just going away from here?"

She could almost feel the weary weight of his sigh, the warm air washing over her skin as he tried in vain to puzzle her out.

"No. I don't." His voice was softening. He was either falling asleep or feeling suddenly sad. She was about to ask when he spoke again, tentative. "Do you?"

She nodded. One errant tear made its escape and slid down the side of her face, vanished into the pillow. Absorbed. Gone.

"Sara?"

"No. Not really." She shifted again. She'd used up all the cool spots and she couldn't find a good place to put her legs. "Sometimes I just wish…"

"What?"

"I just wish things were different." She stopped. "No, not even that. I just wish _I _was different. Somehow."

She heard crackling on the phone, like he was shifting, getting ready to either hang up or really get into it.

"I don't wish you were different. I just wish you would tell me what's going on."

She concentrated on orange things. Squash. Salmon. Peach. Pomegranate.

Salmon.

"I like this place. It's old and broken down. It makes me feel…"

_Beautiful_, she thought.

"What?"

"Anonymous."

* * *

Later.

She must have dozed off again because she was dreaming about planes, giant hunks of metal plummeting, crashing, burning. A thousand little pieces scattered across Las Vegas and she was lost somewhere in the debris. No CSI would ever put her back together again. She was falling and Grissom was telling her to wake up, wake _up_.

"Sara?"

"I'm here," she said. The phone was digging painfully into the side of her head.

"Fiji," he said then.

"What?"

"Fiji. That's where I'd go, if I could go anywhere. Right now."

"Why?"

"_Vitellus insulari._"

"Pardon me?"

"Pentatomid stink bugs."

"Oh. All right. Of course."

"Plus, Fiji is supposed to be…very romantic."

She didn't know what to say to that. Fiji probably would be very romantic, stink bugs and all.

He cleared his throat.

"So first, first I'd come get you."

* * *

And later.

Someone was knocking on her door.

1:20 a.m.

Another jet, low and fast.

Another knock, low and quiet.

She turned on the bedside light. Twenty-five watts. Of course.

She rose and padded to the door, peered through the peephole.

Grissom, disheveled, exhausted, irritated.

She opened the door and stood there in her underwear and T-shirt and when he saw her he smiled.

"You found me."

"Were you hiding?"

"Maybe. For a little while."

She moved back to let him in. He passed her without touching her at all. He smelled like nighttime, like dark and loneliness. He took off his jacket, toed off his shoes. She watched him in the dim puddle of light. He looked around.

"Wow. You weren't kidding," he said.

She nodded. She waited.

"I have a hard time sleeping without you," he said raising his hands helplessly.

"I know the feeling," she said. There. She'd said it. It was about as close as she was going to get. At least for tonight.

He watched her and wondered what he could say to make any of it better. He held out a hand.

"Come to bed?" he said. "Please?"

She did.

* * *

And later still.

"You know, you can talk to me, right?" He sounded unsure, shy. She loved more than she could say. "About…anything."

"I know."

"Okay. I just wanted to make sure, that you knew that."

"Okay."

He tightened his arms around her. She could feel his breath on her neck.

"So…do we have anything we need to…uh…talk about?"

"Maybe." She shifted a bit, moved her hand down, fingers on his wrist, her leg moving back until it was tucked beneath one of his. His hand slid beneath the bottom of her T-shirt to the warm skin of her stomach, his fingers fanned. This was their ritual, familiar, comfortable, beautiful. "Yeah. But not…not now, you know?"

She felt him nod. "Yeah."

They lay together in the gradually lightening room.

"So," she whispered, "when do we leave?"

"For where?"

"Fiji. Remember? Stink bugs?"

"Oh. Right." He pressed his lips to her shoulder, released, and again. "Sara, I'd go anywhere in the world with you right now if you wanted."

A jet.

He sighed.

"I'm not going to be able to sleep with this noise."

"Oh, you'll get used it to. Believe me."

She felt him shake his head in dissent, but minutes later she could hear his breathing even out, his chest rising and falling slow and steady against her back.

She started counting planes.

She was up to seven when she fell asleep.

* * *

_Fin._


End file.
